


Probabilities and Statistical Significance

by megancrtr



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 19:19:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9086545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megancrtr/pseuds/megancrtr
Summary: There is, apparently, a 74 percent probability that Jeff is gay for Parse.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This is 100% not how actual math works. Or stats. Or anything really. Unless, maybe, you close one eye and squint very hard.

\--

They're going to a shootout. Jeff fucking hates shootouts. Fucking despises them.

Coach is scowling, which is appropriately normal for any coach, but what is not normal is the Coach’s sudden need for someone named Jennifer. "Where the fuck is she? Someone get her on the phone. Are you texting her, Tom? Tom what the fuck is she telling you."

It's fucking weird.

Jeff nudges Parse who nudges him back. He gives Parse the look. The "What the fuck is Coach doing" look, and Parse cranes his neck around to look at Coach, who is muttering and seething about someone named Jennifer.

Parse shrugs and gnaws on his mouth guard sideways, a literal metaphor for chewing over the question.

All of a sudden, Coach shouts.

Happily.

Jeff spins around and there's this girl standing at the glass, a phone to her ear. It looks like she's talking to Coach, who doesn't say a fucking word.

Parse elbows Jeff, and gives him the "Look up at the fucking big screen" look, and there's their coach now yelling into a cell phone projected for the entire world to see.

Which is fucking embarrassing when they're about to go into a shootout. Coach rapidly starts tapping Whisk's shoulder. He’s out to go first. Good. Better everyone else than Jeff. Jeff fucking hates shootouts.

Parse gives Jeff this look that looks like a "What the fuck?" look but mashed up with the "You okay?" look. It's all very confusing, so Jeff punches Parse in the arm.

"Jeff!" Coach barks. Whisk just got his shot blocked.

"Coach?"

"What's this goalie's save average?"

"Um."

Because, um, goalie save percentages are the furthest thing from Jeff’s head half the time. They honestly don’t matter much when he's trying to put a puck into the back of the net. The goalie either blocks the puck or doesn't and, either way, Jeff keeps on aiming for the net.

Jeff sort of glances at Parse, hoping he'll help him out, but there goes Parse over the boards.

Jeff metaphorically crosses his heart and pledges to donate a portion of his life savings to God's charity of choice if Parse scores.

".92," Coach screams in Jeff's ear.

Which, okay.

Parse doesn't score.

Maybe Jeff will donate anyway as sort of a show of good faith.

"You know how you always go hole 5?" Coach shouts. Oh shit. Jeff starts to scowl. He's going to have to go shoot. "Well, you've got to go hole 2. Jennifer tells me you'll score if I tell you to go hole 2 and you fucking listen to me."

Um. Right.

"Swoops," Coach yells in his ear. "You shoot in hole number fucking two and fucking win this for us."

Alrighty then.

Jeff flings himself over the boards as Parse circles back. They touch gloves. Jeff skates out.

He hasn't shot a fucking 2 hole in a shootout for years.

Actually. Jeff hasn't ever shot a fucking 2 hole in shootout in his entire life.

Because what dim-twit wastes their shootout shot on a 2 hole when the goalie has got both his glove and his stick ready and waiting?

Jeff doesn't even know if he can make that shot with how little he's practiced it.

Actually, that's a lie. As the fourth best left-winger in the NHL, according to the shithole that is ESPN, Jeff can probably get a puck to that area, but the chances of it going in?

No fucking way.

Fucking way. Motherfucking _way_ . **_Motherfucking way!_ **

\--

It's Whisk, Parse and himself in Coach's office, and literally Coach can't fucking shut up about big data. Or some shit like that. He keeps talking about numbers and stats, and Jeff really wants to be out on the ice, but instead the three of them are in here listening to Coach rant and rave, and Jeff really wants to practice his stops, because yesterday he fell down like four times trying to stop quickly.

Granted, the ice was pretty fucking watery--fucking Islanders' rink. But still.

"It's like counting cards," Coach starts, and that's where Parse stops him. Thank the Lord Almighty.

"Coach," Parse says, "You've got to get to the point or you're going to waste all our--"

Coach sighs, something heavy and dramatic, because that's their coach. Jeff personally thinks having five teenage daughters at the same time is what's doing him in. "I'm stalling," Coach finally says.

"You're stalling," Parse repeats.

"I'm waiting for Jennifer. She was supposed to be here but--"

"I'm here."

Jeff swears that he and his boys have telepathic minds. They all twist as one to stare at the newcomer. Jeff remembers her from the other side of the glass.

She's kind of boring looking, Jeff thinks.

Jeff thinks, Parse is definitely prettier.

Which.

Jeff pretends his blush is because of the boring looking girl, even though he's pretty sure he knows better.

"Boys," Coach says, rising out of his chair. "Meet Jennifer Carter." Coach beams, Jeff fights away a blush, and Parse does the respectable captain thing and gets up to shake Jennifer's hand. Whisk copies him, and Jeff awkwardly follows a moment afterwards.

Jennifer has a nice handshake. Her palms aren't even sweaty. But her hands are like a third of the size of his. Unlike Parse's which are just a little bit smaller than Jeff’s. And well, everyone says that hands say something about the size of dicks.

And Jeff is not going to follow that thought. 

He is not going to start thinking hard about Parse’s hands. That is a way weird thought. Except it's not a weird thought. Noticing the size of someone's hands. It's not a weird thought unless Jeff makes it a weird thought.

Jeff's a little concerned he's making it fucking weird.

Jeff drops back into his chair, and Jennifer takes the last open seat.

"She's here to talk numbers with you guys."

Numbers?

"She's like stats on steroids," Coach says.

Jeff doesn't think his older sister, Molly, would approve of that phrase. Equating Jennifer to numbers. But then, his sister Molly probably wouldn't have approved of him thinking Jennifer has boring looks either. Even though it is sort of a relief, because all the women are usually so pretty and it gets rather annoying sometimes, because hockey players are anything but pretty, but management always bring in pretty girls, and it's really a hard standard to--

"Jeff, she's the one who knew you had to shoot to the 2 hole."

"Good call," Jeff says, because what else is he supposed to say. They won the shootout. He still thinks he probably could've gotten it shooting it in hole 5 like he usually does. But the past is the past.

Coach says some final words about stats and Jennifer, and then he shoos them out of the office to go skate while he talks to Jennifer a little more.

Parse elbows him on their way down to the locker room. "What was that about?" Parse says. "You think Jennifer's cute?"

Jeff gives Parse the "I know you're fucking with me" look.

He almost gave Parse the "She wasn’t the prettiest one in that room" look in return, but Jeff wasn't sure how Parse would interpret that look in present company.

Jeff is also not really sure why he thought to give that look.

Jeff looks a little deeper into himself and decides that he was going to give Parse that look because it's a running joke that Parse is always the prettiest one in the room.

Parse, at least, still has all his teeth.

Not that Jennifer doesn't have all her teeth.

Christ.

Jeff is a mess.

"I think Jennifer's cute," Whisk says, rescuing Jeff.

Jeff punches Whisk in the shoulder. "You just think smarts are sexy."

"Well, they are," Whisk says with a huff and a blush.

Jeff smiles a little. His sister Molly would probably approve of that response.

\--

Jennifer turns out to be an encyclopedia of numbers.

"More like a fact book," Whisk corrects him, biting his lip as he looks at Jennifer standing behind the boards, her arms crossed. "Encyclopedias have articles. She's just all numbers."

Jeff would tell Whisk that his sister, Molly, would take offense to that use of language--diluting all of Jennifer's person to numbers--but the dorky fashion Whisk compares Jennifer to inanimate objects probably makes it okay. Instead of correcting Whisk, Jeff rolls his eyes and concedes that maybe she's more like a fact book than an encyclopedia.

Anyway, Whisk would know best. He spent three years in the NCAA, which includes almost as much college as hockey.

"She still can't skate," Parse says, judging where it is probably right to judge. They are a hockey team after all. And she has nothing to do with hockey.

They googled her after the meeting. Mostly to try and find her Facebook and get Whisk to friend her, but also to see who exactly she was. And who Jennifer is, according to the Internet, is not much of a hockey fan.

From the all-knowing Google, they learned that Jennifer graduated from MIT, which is cool. But so did a lot of other people who work with numbers in the NHL, according to Tumble, who overheard them talking about Jennifer. Tumble, apparently, has a family of smart siblings who ended up being like the third generation to go to MIT or some shit. It makes Jeff wonder how so many smart people ended up letting Tumble play a sport where he gets his brains knocked around on a regular basis.

Anyway, Jennifer has absolutely nothing to do with hockey.

Or skating. Or anything sports related. But she does have seventeen articles published, which Jeff tells Parse and Whisk is a big fucking deal. His sister just got her first one published and his mom bought her a cake for that.

Jennifer's articles are about experimental game theory, game theory and connectivity, and game theory and terrorists.

"At least she has something to do with a game, right? Shows she's at least competitive," Parse says in that judging voice of his.

Jennifer the Fact Book has a lot of thoughts that are really just reels of numbers about where they should shoot on the goalie. Specifically where they should shoot on Murphs.

Practice ends up a never ending parade of Whisk, Parse and Jeff netting goals and Murphs becoming more and more frustrated. Murphs yells at them a lot and, if Jennifer was on the ice, there's no doubt Murphs would try and deck her, fuck goalie padding.

Instead of going onto the ice, Jennifer stays behind the boards and tells Jeff where to shoot, and the puck goes in four times out of ten. Then seven out of ten as Murphs gets more and more frustrated. Normally, Jeff's lucky to make two out of ten when Murphs is actively and intensely protecting the goal.

The rest of the team practices on the other half of the ice, giving first interested and then pitying looks towards Murphs' end of the ice.

When Coach finally calls an end to practice, Murphs doesn't take off his goalie mask and doesn't leave the ice. Parse, who's been making seven out of ten shots, skates out to him. Jeff starts to follow, because he wants to talk to Parse and Murphs a little, but then fucking Jennifer starts to walk onto the ice, teetering and tottering with this concentrated expression on her face, and just no.

Any sane goalie would want to murder her right now. Which means Murphs definitely wants murder her right now.

Coach would be really upset if Jeff let Jennifer die. Actually, scratch Coach. If Jeff let that happen, Cynthia B., the Aces' director of public relations, would castrate Jeff.

It would be worse than when that girl Tumble was fucking posted a picture of his dick on her insta.

Cynthia B. was very, very unhappy.

Jeff skates over to Jennifer and cautiously stops in front of her. He's sort of scared any sort of breeze will topple her shuffling figure over. "You should let him cool off for a bit."

Jennifer sort of frowns at him and then moves one way. Jeff shifts to block her. He does not want Cynthia B. to castrate him.

"I'm serious," Jeff says. "Murphs will take a swing at you. He's really pissed."

"I'm just doing my job."

"What even is your job?"

"Make you guys a better team."

"Not against our team. Seriously, go--"

"It's a 7 percent chance he'll hit me. Barely a statistical probability." She pushes Jeff to the side and he's too dumbfounded to not glide a little on the ice. Where did she even come up with that number?

She continues working her way so, so very slowly across the ice.

Jeff spins around and catches Parse's eye. Parse gives him the "Fucking fix it" look. Jeff takes a deep breath and tries again, stopping in front of the slow-moving Jennifer.

"Well, there's a 95 percent chance that if Murphs doesn't punch you, Jams will certainly do it for him once he finds out you attacked his best friend after practice."

That at least gives Jennifer pause. "I'm not attacking him."

"Practice is over." Jeff crosses his arms and tries to look the 16 inches or so taller than her he is.

Jennifer does not seem phased by his size. "95 percent chance, you said?" Jennifer does not look a little bit terrified. Instead she looks thoughtful and somewhat intrigued. "That Jams would hit me?"

"Yes?" Jeff has no idea what is happening inside her head.

"Are you sure? 95 percent?"

No, no Jeff is not fucking sure about 95 percent. He just chose a fucking number. But he chose it and so he's committed to it. Jeff nods and confirms, "95 percent chance."

Jennifer makes a humming noise, and then turns around. Jeff helps her off the ice, maybe pulling her a little to get her away from Murphs faster.

Jeff catches Parse's eye before he heads into the tunnel, and Parse gives him the "You did good" look.

Jeff fucking preens.

\--

Jennifer does not say a single word to Jeff, Whisk or Parse during the hour practice they have with her and Murphs. Instead Jennifer leans over the boards as close to Murphs' net as she can be and fucking mutters to him.

Jeff can see why Murphs was so fucking pissed last practice. Because not a single fucking puck of his goes in. Not a fucking one. Not a single one sneaks in. Parse gets five in and each one makes him look so fucking thoughtful, and Whisk gets in two, and Jeff doesn't get in a single fucking one.

Jeff bangs his stick into the boards. It breaks. Fucking. Fuck. Fuck. Jeff knows he's acting like his three year-old cousin, but Jeff scored like crazy yesterday. Just yesterday he was netting seven out of ten, and now he can't even make one in a hundred.

"Swoops." Parse stops him before he can get off the ice, the end of their one hour up.

Jeff picks up the two halves of his stick.

Parse gives him the "It's okay" look, and Jeff doesn't want or need it right now. He just wants to go home and have a warm cup of tea and watch big robots beat each other up. He has a couple of options. He just needs to get through the thirty minutes of tape they have with Jennifer.

Fucking Jennifer.

Jeff sends the "Don't bother" look back, but Parse doesn't seem to get the message.

Instead, Parse starts talking about his kid brother who wants to ask his girlfriend to prom. "He's currently stuck between asking at a nice dinner or writing it out with the inside of glow sticks. I'm not sure which to suggest."

"Glow sticks," Jeff says, trying to scowl and talk at the same time. He's still upset.

"You're right," Parse says.

"Of course I'm right," Jeff says, and a smile floats onto his face. He likes when Parse knows he's right. "Originality is the best. All the girls get asked at dinner."

"Did you ask at dinner?" Parse asks.

"Did you?" Jeff fires back.

Parse shoves him. The two of them teeter around on the rubber mats to the locker room. "I asked you first," Parse says, like that means fucking anything.

"I gave you the better brotherly advice to give to your brother."

Parse shrugs, and Jeff grins as he sees the look of defeat.

They settle go back to walking as normal as possible in skates. "How old is the little squirt now?"

Parse grins. Jeff looks away. He elbows Parse because what a dopey smile.

"Eighteen," Parse says. "He's waiting to hear back from Penn State and University of Maryland." Parse, Jeff knows, is hoping Kyle will go to Penn State. Parse's sisters, Kim and Kelly, are already there, sophomores majoring in something smart like engineering or biology or something. None of them are hockey players.

They like their teeth too much.

And probably like their brains unscrambled as well.

Parse talks about his siblings, and Jeff nods at all the right moments, sometimes adding in a story about Molly. He fucking loves his sister.

They sit down in stalls next to each other, peeling away their layers and skates. In the pause between stories, Jeff asks, "So how did you ask your high school sweetheart to prom?"

Parse quickly ducks his head and says, "Who says I had a high school sweetheart."

Jeff laughs. Parse blushes, full on turning his pale, pale cheeks bright red.

It was a wild guess on Jeff's part, but Parse has to have had one with that look.

Jeff wonders how she was. Probably blonde, like Parse. Blue-eyes. No. Hazel eye, like Parse's own. Eyes that change depending on the light and what he's wearing. What she's wearing. Jeff bets Parse and her went in matching blue. Parse's mom probably made the corsages, because Parse mentioned how the family never had any money growing up. Or maybe Parse squandered away the little stipend from the Q and bought the flowers that way.

"You had a sweetheart," Jeff says. "You don't sign any of the tits or asses when they're pointed at you. You and your high school girl," Jeff continues with a smile, "probably broke it off amicably, and she made you honest and promise you'll never to be a douche to a girl ever again."

He laughs. Parse doesn't join in. Jeff stops laughing. Jeff shifts in the awkward silence that's sudden started.

Parse isn't giving Jeff a look, but Jeff thinks he recognizes one anyway. It's the "Please stop talking" look. The "I don't want to talk about this" look.

"So how did you ask her?" Jeff tries in a lighter tone, pointing a "I'm sorry and we're cool" look at Parse, but Parse doesn't look at him.

"I didn't," Parse says, runs a hand through his hair.

Jeff doesn’t know how to make the atmosphere lighter, so he just kind of gets up and goes to shower quick before the tape review with Jennifer. Fuck. Jennifer.

Jeff just wants giant robots fighting one another.

\--

The trick to scoring on Murphs has something to do with statistically significant numbers.

The trick to Murphs blocking them all also has something to do with statistically significant numbers.

These statistically significant numbers are based on factors that include but are not limited to: how the proceeding player shot, whether those proceeding shots went in, what shot number they are on, and how the player skated up to start their run.

Basically, they are all fucking predictable according to some algorithm Jennifer has running through her mind. Jennifer has been called in by the coach to do three things: help Murphs predict shots on goal, show the rest of them how to predict goalies, and make sure all of them are way less fucking predictable.

Even though Jeff is the fourth best left-winger in the NHL.

He isn't too predictable at all.

\--

Jennifer and her statistically significant numbers and all her other numbers and percentages and probabilities are very frustrating.

Very frustrating.

They are very, very complicated.

Jeff calls an arts-and-craft day at his house and Parse, Whisk and Murphs come over with the twelve pages of statistically significant numbers that Jennifer made them.

Twelve pages.

Twelve.

Parse, Whisk and him make flashcards.

Murphs makes his own set of cards. His stack is like fourteen times bigger than their own. Even Whisk, with his big fucking hands, can't hold all Murphs' flashcards at one time.

They quiz each other about other goalies. Murphs mutters to himself about other players in the corner.

"What the fuck does this even say?" Whisk holds a card up close to his eyes. It's white and blue. That might make it a card about maybe the leafs or the Sharks? Even with the 120 Crayola crayon pack, they couldn't quite get the right nuanced colors.

Jeff does not have a printer, and Parse's attempt at the Ranger's logo early on was enough for them to decide not to draw anymore logos.

"Whose handwriting is it?" Parse asks as Jeff goes, "Only Parse can read his handwriting."

Parse gives him the "What the fuck do you know" look, and Jeff gives him the "I fucking know" look back.

"Give me that.” Parse mutters and scowls and takes the card from Whisk's hands. "Leafs," Parse reads, then peers closer. "Leafs and Anders?"

"Andersen," Whisk corrects. "His save percentage is .919 overall--"

"It doesn't fucking matter what his save percentage is overall," Parse says, "only where he doesn't save--"

"I doubt this is even going to work," Jeff says. "There are so many factors. Too many factors. How does Jennifer even know any of this? Two hole only after 35 shots on goal with forty-two percent made by Parse? Why do I need to know that? When the fuck am I ever going to know that quick enough during a game?"

Whisk opens his mouth and then closes it.

Parse shrugs. "Coach believes in it."

Jeff doesn't really believe in it.

Except, he guesses, shifting a little, he does? He did score all the time when Jennifer was telling him where to shoot, and she couldn't even skate. But he doesn't have her brain. All these numbers are wasted on him. "Well, why isn't Coach making everyone else do this?"

Parse shrugs. "Trial run?"

"Just wait until you're scoring more goals. Then you’ll believe." Whisk flips over another flashcard. "Next."

\--

Jennifer has a couple of lungs when motivated.

She's pretty motivated when shouting out theoretical goalies they're shooting on. Even though they're shooting into an empty net, somehow ninety-seven percent of the shots are blocked.

Jennifer is particularly motivated to shout whenever their netted pucks have been theoretically blocked.

After practice, they always go to watch tape of the practice with Jennifer. There, she pulls out her 12 pages of statistically significant numbers and not so kindly tells them every time they chose wrong.

"You have to make sure you're considering all the factors," she tells them. Whisk nods vigorously with a very transparent "I need to do better" look on his face.

Parse and Jeff have a new look. It's called the "Whisk is head over heels in love, and it's sort of annoying" look.

\--

Jennifer's yelling pays off.

The three of them start scoring more.

Murphs starts blocking more. His save percentage increases .1 for three straight weeks.

He's not the best goalie in the league, but going from .90 to .93 within a month is pretty spectacular. Pretty fucking amazing, actually. Who the fuck even does that?

James fucking Murphy fucking does that. Fucking--fucking, yes!

The entire NHL is talking about him.

Murphs isn't supposed to say Jennifer is the secret. Instead, Cynthia B. tells him to say things like "Trying a new tactic." or "Started taking a closer look at strategy." or "Reworking some of my instincts."

Management wants to make sure none of the teams in the league try doing what they're doing. That no one else finds their own Jennifer.

Jeff sort of supports having only one Jennifer in the league. Her numbers sort of take some of the magic out of hockey.

Murphs complains about it best: "I have fucking statistics coming out of my head. Whatever happened to instinct?"

Whisk slaps him on the shoulder. Parse says some stuff about marrying instinct and numbers, and Jeff just nods along. After the game against the Leafs, the whole team passes out on the charter, but Jeff wakes to Murphs muttering numbers.

Jeff hopes he doesn't start muttering numbers.

\--

Jennifer and her number obsession with making them play smarter predictably makes them play smarter, but less predictably starts making Jeff wonder about his life.

Like, if non-predictability is good against goalies and while playing hockey, should he start doing the same in his own life? Should he stop being so obsessive about which socks he wears to game day interviews and start changing it up? Should he stop always making pasta on Tuesdays and start using a magic 8 ball to decide his dinner? Should Jeff finally do something unpredictable with Parse? Like kiss him? Or maybe not. Too unexpected. Probably also rather unwelcomed. Maybe they should just go to the zoo together.

Jeff hasn't been to the zoo in forever.

It's a good first step for spontaneity, Jeff decides.

"There's nothing wrong with routine," Parse says, the two of them watching Family Feud, Jeff's toes tucked under Parse's thighs because Jeff's toes are always cold. "For example, going out after games. It's very routine, very predictable, but it's not a bad thing."

"What if we started going to a different bar?"

"We run through the same drills hundreds of times. Repetition makes us good players."

"But spontaneity makes us better."

"Statistics are making us better."

Jeff hums. He supposes. "But we’re trying to not be as predictable."

"We're adjusting our play based on predictability. We're like, I don't know, becoming more awesome by being predictable based on predictions. But no one else sees it that way except for Jennifer. In Jennifer's eyes, we're probably just becoming incredibly, efficiently predictable."

Jeff repeats Parse's words a couple of times in his head.

"So does that mean you don't want to go to the zoo?"

Parse shakes his head and pats Jeff's calf. "I wouldn't mind seeing a tiger or two." Jeff kicks Parse's side. Parse snatches his foot. Jeff struggles a bit before giving up and rolling his eyes, settling back down to watch Steve Harvey.

\--

Jeff gets Parse to do a lot of things with him in the name of spontaneity.

They go swing dancing one time, thinking they'd be twirling girls around but instead end up awkwardly shuffling with them across the floor. Another time they go to a Cirque du Solei show. Even after living in Vegas for a number of years, Jeff had never gone. They spend some time at the Natural History Museum and the Discovery Children's museum, and well, they do things they hadn't thought of doing before.

Sometimes Whisk or Murphs or one of the other boys come along, but usually it's just the two of them.

If Jeff looks too closely, it sort of looks like he and Parse are going out on dates, but Jeff doesn't look too closely too often.

They go gambling one night, and Parse starts muttering about statistically significant numbers that make sure they lose. It sounds like a pretty accurate assessment, since Parse is down a couple hundred. Jeff follows up the complaining with a story about how his sister went through a stint where she tried to count cards.

"We should go," Parse shouts in Jeff's ear.

"Yeah?"

"Let's get drunk."

"We're already sort of drunk."

Parse contemplates that and then amends, "More drunk."

Jeff contemplates that. "We do that a lot though."

Parse frowns, and Jeff shrugs. It's not a night for routine. Parse mopes a little, loses another Benjamin and then returns to Jeff's side with a sly smile.

"But we've never gotten drunk at a gay bar."

Which. Well that's true. Jeff has never done that.

Jeff went to one once though, when his third cousin was deciding whether or not she was gay. She made out with a lot of girls. Safe to say it turned out she was indeed gay.

Parse is grinning at him, like he knows he's won.

Jeff frowns, because it just doesn't feel quite right for some reason. Going to a gay bar.

Oh, yes. That's right.

Cynthia B., director of public relations and guardian of the all-important Las Vegas Aces brand image, had given them the "gay talk." It amounted to: if you're coming out, you don't do it through paparazzi pictures on some second tiered gossip blog. Or so help her God. Instead, you should talk to her about creating a plan for a safe, yet satisfying coming out story to the public. Or so help her God.

Jeff reminds Parse of this particular meeting where half the players went bright red.

"You're straight," Parse says. "You can't come out if you're not gay." Parse claps him very manningly on the shoulder. "Besides, what's the worst that could happen?"

Which.

Jennifer would probably have a statistic that would tell him the probability of the worst happening. It would probably be around 95 percent.

That leaves a 5 percent chance that the worst would not happen.

That's about the chance that a goal will go in on Murphs these days.

It's good enough for Jeff.

They go to a gay bar.

Parse and him hang pretty close together for the first thirty minutes. A few shots in, not all of them bought on their own open tab, Parse claps Jeff on the shoulders and says, "Let's be spontaneous."

The two of them clink shot glasses, and Jeff says, "Carpe diem," and Parse replies with, "YOLO."

Cynthia B., Jeff is 100 percent sure, would very much not approve of either term.

They drown the shots, and then Jeff loses Parse to a couple of hot boys. Because Parse is pretty. Parse is hot. Parse still has all his teeth.

It's two a.m., and Jeff is pretty sure he is 100 percent not straight.

He is also pretty sure that Parse is also not 100 percent straight.

It means Cynthia B. would be very, very upset with them if the paparazzi caught them.

They've been doing a lot of things in the gay bar that would look very gay if they were caught, which would make for a pretty convincing gay outing story on a second tiered gossip blog.

For example, they both made out with a lot of hot, hot guys. Parse, Jeff thinks a wee-bit smashed and with a flash of jealousy, might have also done something in a bathroom too.

Jeff wants to do something in a bathroom with Parse.

He gets Parse into the bathroom.

They pee next to each other.

Jeff's bladder feels fucking fantastic.

\--

Jeff wakes up with the worst hangover he has ever had in living NHL memory, including the one after the Aces won the Stanley Cup. Actually, nothing could ever be worse than that. Thank God. But still.

Jeff rolls over and pukes off the side of the bed.

There's a groan from the floor by the bed.

Parse is on the floor by the bed.

Which.

There's a lot of screaming and shouting and shouting about not shouting because it hurts, and then Parse ends up in the shower and Jeff ends up hanging over the toilet.

They get to practice two minutes late, and Jeff doesn't even have the energy to properly put on everything. So his equipment feels a little loose and a little not right, but Jeff is late to practice. It can’t really be helped.

When he and Parse wobble onto the ice, Jennifer is there, like she always is now, hanging halfway over the ice, chatting with Whisk.

It sounds like the topic of discussion is numbers.

Jeff groans, and Parse and him share the not as rare as it should be look of "We are so fucking hungover." And then the increasingly common look of "Whisk needs to fucking ask her out already."

Jennifer looks up at them and says, "98 percent sure you are hungover."

"Based on what evidence?" Jeff says, trying to be cheeky. But he should've kept his mouth shut, because Jennifer starts rolling off evidence, which is paired with numbers that Jeff swears she is just making up on the spot, but knowing her have actually be floating around in her head for years. 

Whisk and Murphs are halfway on the ice, like halfway to lying on the ice, in hysterics, the other boys slowly coming over to see what the fuss is.

Parse, Jeff notices sourly, has skated away whistling, wearing his dorky-ass Ray-Bans until Coach will yell at him to take them off, and leaving Jeff a victim to numbers.

\--

They're at an after-party for some dinner where they all had to smooze suits real hard.

Jennifer is with them. Whisk asked her as his date. Finally.

Jennifer, it turns out not surprisingly, is a goddamn lightweight and has the numbers on literally everything.

She goes on rants about forests and terrorism and atmospheres and diseases that are actually very coherent and sound incredibly informational. Jeff just doesn't follow her very well. He might be staring a lot at Parse instead. Parse is on his phone. He’s probably tweeting out that rainforest fact Jennifer just said. Parse started donating to the zoo after Jeff took him there.

"Little J!" Murphs calls from across the table they've got. Jeff does not particularly care for Jennifer's nickname. "What's the percentage that Swoops' gay for Parse?"

Jeff flips off Murphs. "Making jokes about homosexuality is like number two of no-nos in sensitivity training. Didn't Cynthia B. tell your fool ass that?"

"Fuck you," Murphs says, and Parse laughs.

Jeff beams and starts in on his next whiskey.

\--

Jennifer comes up to Jeff in the locker room a few days later. She has a folded piece of paper.

"Yeah?"

Jennifer sits down next to him, passes him the piece of paper. He opens it and before he can read a word, Jennifer tells him. "It's a 74 percent probability."

"What?"

Jennifer clears her throat and looks around and says, "That you're gay for Parson."

Jeff freezes because, wait. "What?"

"I ran the numbers."

Jeff does not think a coherent thought, but somehow words that make sense come out of his mouth. "You have numbers for that?"

"Theoretical."

"Theoretical numbers," Jeff repeats. Jeff feels a little bit numb. Which. He knew he was gay. Figured that out the other night. So.

"Correct."

"You have theoretical numbers to quantify how gay someone is for someone else." And Jeff is 74 percent gay for Parse. What does that even mean?

"How likely they are to be gay for someone else," Jennifer corrects.

"Right."

"There's a difference."

"Okay."

"So," Jennifer continues, "as you probably know," she says, "you're more likely to be gay for Parson than you are to flip heads on a coin."

Jennifer awkwardly pats his leg twice.

Jennifer is as good at being awkward as she is at numbers.

\---

Jeff wonders if his recently discovered spontaneity has something to do with that number. Maybe it wasn't so spontaneous to always be spontaneous with Parse.

Jeff had figured that kissing Parse would be like 100 percent random and spontaneous, but apparently it was (is?) more probable than not.

Jeff isn't sure how he feels about that logic.

Jeff is really not liking Jennifer and her numbers right now.

According to the piece of paper Jennifer shoved at him, the probability is based on differences in the ways Jeff spends time with Parse and with the other teammates.

It’s also compared to the friendship of Jams and Murphs, which Jennifer knows for a fact is not gay, because they both have wives and children.

Jeff’s probability of being in gay love with Parse also has something to do with the way they act together on the ice and the number of smiles shared and number of laughs and the range of looks they have for one another, and how the fuck does Jennifer get all this information?

When Jeff asks, Jennifer just shrugs and says she’s been watching.

Which is not creepy at all.

\--

Jeff thinks a lot about Parse in the next couple of days and decides not to make pasta for typical Tuesday night pasta night.

Parse raises his eyebrows at the chicken salad.

"Keeping it surprising," Jeff says when asked.

Parse grins, and they share a "Good to have you here" look, just like they do every Tuesday.

\--

Jennifer comes out with the boys, sticking close to Whisk's side.

They make a pretty, cute couple. Her dark skin, his pale ass.

See, him and Parse would make a pretty awesome couple too. Maybe not as pretty or as cute, but like. Good. They’d be a good couple.

"Hey!" Jams calls across the table.

Jeff hopes he's going to ask what the next round of drinks are, because Jeff really wants to hear Jams order them a round of monkey glands or maybe a couple fat like Buddha's. Jeff once thought about getting Jams to order a redheaded slut, but dismissed it when he thought of how disappointed Molly would be in him. Jeff doesn't particularly like anything about the drinks except their names.

Instead of asking for drinks, Jams directs his words at Jennifer, "Little J! You ever calculate the percentage that Swoops is gay for Parse?"

"Yes," Jennifer says proudly. "I can calculate anything."

"Well then what is it?"

"74!" Jeff shouts, loud and proud and just a teensy-bit drunk. "I am 74 percent gay for Parse."

"No!" Jennifer looks horrified. "It's a 74 percent chance you're gay for Parse. Those statements are not equal."

Jeff shrugs. Because sort of the same difference to him.

"74!" Jams shouts. "Well that's statistically significant, isn't it?"

"You should know better," Jennifer says, a scowl and no small amount disappointment on her face. "That is not how statistical significance works." She launches into an explanation of percentages and probabilities that Jeff has heard quite a few times sober.

Parse elbows him with a smile. "74 percent, huh?"

Jeff shrugs. "What can I say, you're cute."

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! [tumblr](https://megancrtr.tumblr.com/).


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